“And with my harmonica we could have sings around a fire, and we could fish in the Truckee, and ride the range, and prospect for gold.”
In no time at all the Double Lazy Heart opened its gates to a bunch of wild buckaroos whose shouts and laughter bounced across the canyon from mountain to mountain.
Charley and I adored our hilarious weekends with house and barn full of children. Once when a tousled redhead asked, “How do you park a horse when you want to stop?” we laughingly decided to do a book and call it “Our Weekend Children.” But we never wrote the book; we were too busy living it.
Besides, I had to take a secretarial job in Reno to make ends meet. This was no hardship, for I liked to pound out words on a typewriter, even if they weren’t my own. And I felt a sense of excitement in being part of a busy office; it was like playing in a big orchestra with other people clicking away on their keyboards, phones ringing, papers rattling, deep voices booming, sopranos answering.
My days now were full to bursting. Twenty-six miles to work each morning. Twenty-six miles back at night. Mountains of groceries to buy for the weekends. Games to plan. Treasure hunts on horseback. Gymkhanas. Lessons to prepare on flora and fauna. Specimens to collect.
I had few adult friends these days, and these few felt sorry for me. But I couldn’t have been happier. For what could have been more thrilling than watching a frightened caterpillar of a child grow butterfly wings? I’ll always remember one, an overfat lump of a boy who had to be lifted up on a horse and led about time after time. I baked him a three-layered chocolate cake with whipped cream frosting to celebrate the day when at last he swung into the saddle by himself and trotted off in time to his own self-confident whistling!
And there was awkward Emmy Luke, with skinny arms and legs too long for the rest of her. She took to running away and hiding behind the pump house. I’d find her there, all tear-sodden because the other children made fun of her. It was Hobo who gave her a sense of belonging. First he walked with her as carefully as if the slightest jarring might break her thin little body. Then he put on the gentlest dogtrot that made Charley smile swiftly, secretly at me. Hobo seemed to be in on our conspiracy.
But the thing that gave Emmy Luke real importance happened on the day we were riding three abreast across an open plank bridge over a gulley. I was on the outside riding Pepper Pot, a rough-broke cayuse we’d had to take in trade for a ton of hay. In the middle rode a brand-new girl on Foxy, and Hobo with Emmy Luke was on the far side. Of course, I knew better than to ride three abreast in a spot like this, but everything had been smooth as honey till now. Suddenly out of nowhere a bird flew screaming in Pepper Pot’s face. He shied and bumped into Foxy, who in turn shied against Hobo. For one panicky moment I could see Emmy Luke tossed off into the rocks below. Instead, Hobo braced himself against Foxy, and held all of us on the bridge.
At lunchtime the new girl said, “Guess what, kids.”
Forks and spoons paused.
“What?” somebody asked, his mouth full of potato.
“Emmy Luke saved Annie and me from a terrible fall this morning.”
After lunch Emmy grabbed me around the knees and said with fierce intensity, “Oh, Annie, I love Hobo so.” Then she turned her rainbow face to me. “I love you too, Annie.”
“And I love you” I said, squeezing her hard. For I did. I loved her and the big sky and the wide earth and the bare brown mountains and all its creatures.
• • •
Who knows if I might have become bored with happiness, like too much ice cream or too much anything? Our worries all seemed to be melting away. We were getting three crops of hay and selling it as fast as Charley could harvest it; the list of dudes wanting to come to the ranch was long as a kite’s tail; we were a month ahead on our mortgage payments. And wonder of earth and of Heaven, Charley still thought me beautiful. Some people have the Midas touch, but Charley made everything he touched seem beautiful.
One fall evening when we had cooked our supper outdoors and we both felt drenched in happiness, I said a poem to Charley. He wasn’t one for poetry; he enjoyed harmonica music more. But he liked this one:
Prairie goes to the mountain,
Mountain goes to the sky.
The sky sweeps across to the distant hills
And here, in the middle,
Am I.
Shadows creep up the mountain,
Mountain goes black on the sky,
The sky bursts out with a million stars
And here, by the campfire,
Am I.
“Am I means Are we, doesn’t it, Annie?”
“Of course it does.”
“Heaven is on earth for us.”
“Now it is,” I said, “but it wasn’t always, for me.”
“Nor me.”
We sat there in the living sleeping silence of night, my hand lost in Charley’s and one of the stray pups curled close by us for warmth. We were caught up in the silver web of the moon, caught up in our small happy world.
I thought, There’s nothing more in life that I want.
9. More Dead than Alive
NEXT MORNING I was still in a state of bliss. Our day began early, as always. Charley was planning to bale the dried alfalfa and I was off to Reno to be a prim and proper secretary. Humming an old cowboy song, I kissed him good-bye, laughing at his parting words, “Only birds can sing and peck at the same time. Good-bye, my bluebird!”
I liked driving to the city in the early morning. And this morning especially. The sun was edging up around the mountains, and high on Mount Rose two dollops of snow were dark-wetting the slope as they melted and came trickling down to join the Truckee River.
Like any dyed-in-the-wool rancher I smiled at the precious moisture. “The Truckee needs all she can get,” I thought.
I sniffed the air. It was still cool and sweet. My sandwich and an apple lay on the seat beside me, and the camera with its expensive color film that we saved only for miracles, like the double rainbow I’d once caught. Beside it lay a book to read at lunchtime. I can still remember its title: The Sea of Grass. I’d chosen it because I hoped it would tell of long-ago days when the old West was an ocean of grass that billowed on and on until the mountains put an end to it; and herds of buffalo and wild horses roamed free, and were free for the taking.
It was still too early for traffic. My little roadster hummed along at full speed. I’d get to the office ahead of time, and Mr. Harris, my boss, would nod in pleasure. Then we’d whiff through the morning’s mail, and soon it would be noon and for a whole wonderful hour I could lose myself in the wind-rumpled miles of grass.
Suddenly I stopped day-dreaming. An enormous cattle truck loomed in front of me. I drove up close, expecting to see white-faced Herefords or shiny black Angus or gray clouds of sheep.
Then my hands clutched the wheel and my throat knotted at what I saw. The truck was jammed, crammed, packed with mustangs, more dead than alive! Tatters of flesh hung loose on their necks. Blood trickled from their nostrils. They had the look and stench of death. All that kept them on their feet was the way they were wedged in.
The shock stunned me. My ears rang; the earth whirled. Dizzily, I stumbled out of the car and vomited by the side of the road. When the earth steadied again I got back in and raced desperately after the truck. For miles I trailed the monster as it roared along the pavement, belching black fumes in my face. Sick at heart I speeded up, then slowed, keeping the truck just in sight, trying not to look at any one animal. I felt as though I were part of something terrible, horrible, unclean. Where were the mustangs being taken? Why were they in such condition? I had to know.
At a stop sign I came up close and a little foal with a blaze just like Hobo’s tried to poke his head through the bars. He was staring out at me in wild appeal, as if somehow it was my fault, and why didn’t I lift a finger to help? I could feel the solid boards of the truck crushing against his chest, against my chest too. They were like prison bars! Suddenly I wa
s back in the hospital, my lungs bursting for breath, my fingernails clawing at the cast.
Questions flooded my brain. Who was responsible? What could I do? Pa’s words rang in my ears: “Torture is the unforgivable sin.” Unafraid now, I kept on following, even as the truck pulled off the highway onto a narrow dirt road. The landscape grew lonely and desolate, with no cabins or ranches. Just bare gray earth, and bare brown mountains, and tumbleweeds dead and forlorn.
I looked at my gauge; the tank was half full. I looked at my watch. The office would be at its busiest now. Everyone would be wondering about me. As I followed the truck on and on, the gentle morning sunshine gave way to merciless heat. Blood and sweat crusted on the horses’ bodies. Heads bobbed nervously, then drooped low, and lower. I could see their muscle tremors and their breath coming fast, as if they were being pursued. The dizziness came on me again. Frantically I clung to the wheel and began saying a prayer I’d found in the hospital library. I didn’t know I’d memorized it, but now I chanted it over and over—to steady my hands on the wheel, to stop the reeling earth, to stop the squeezing of my stomach.
“See, Lord,1
my coat hangs in tatters;
all that I had of zest,
all my strength,
I have given.
Now my poor head swings
to offer up all the loneliness of my heart.
Dear God,
stiff on my thickened legs
I stand here before You,
Your useless servant.
Oh! Of Your goodness,
give me a gentle death”
And I prayed for the death of those horses.
The truck was turning into a narrow, dusty byway. I cranked my windows tight; still the dust seeped in. The horses were all but lost in it.
At last the truck came to a stop in front of a low brick building. Above the door, in ragged crimson letters, as if painted in blood, were the words: Rendering Plant.
I slowed to a stop. In my daze I wanted not to look, but I was hypnotized. Two brawny men were lowering the tailgate of the truck. To my horror I saw that some of the horses were hobbled, hindfoot to forefoot! Now their feet were jerked out from under them, and on their sides they were pulled like cold carcasses across the tailgate and into the plant. Only their heaving bodies showed they were still breathing.
I knew now why they had not been killed. They had to be brought in alive or their flesh would have rotted in the sun. But at last death would come. It might not be gentle, but surely it would be swift. And then their meat would be ground and stuffed into cans.
In fierce rage I flipped open my camera and snapped pictures of the grim scene. One of the men saw me and stalked over to my car. He thrust his dark-bearded face close to mine.
“Listen, you dumb sob-sister,” he snarled, “you burn them pictures, or I’ll———”
I whirled the car about, and he half fell out of my way, firing a volley of curses after me.
Somehow I arrived at the office. Oh, the peace of it! The low-toned voices. The whisper of papers. The whir of typewriters. Eyes followed me asking, Why are you late? But I explained only to Mr. Harris.
“I can understand your feelings, Annie,” he said. “You were thinking of your own Hobo and what he’s meant to you.”
“Not only of him. But because of him I feel kin to his whole tribe. That’s why I’ve got to do something to stop this cruelty. Something! Anything!”
Mr. Harris shook his head in concern. “Annie,” he said, “the demand for horsemeat to feed dogs and cats and even chickens has become big business. So big now that the hunters can afford to ride roundup in their own private planes. They’re not just Nevadans, either. They come from other states.”
I was shocked. “Do you mean that the little planes I often see skimming low over the foothills could be mustangers?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. And those pilots are a tough bunch; they want no slip of a girl messing in their business. You’d better leave them alone.”
“Oh, I’ll get men to fight them. Not me,” I promised.
• • •
Charley had been baling all day and looked sunbeat and tired when I reached home. I waited until after supper to tell him. When I explained all I had seen and learned about the mustangers, he put down his cup of coffee and his face had a look of deep pain and sadness.
He stared out at the far mountains, his eyes seeming to see everything—not just the truck jam-packed with the mustangs, but the plane roaring out of the sky, flushing them from the foothills, hazing them onto the dry lake beds, then the trucks taking over, chasing them, running them, and running and running them until they dropped. He caught his breath as if he had been running alongside the terrified horses. Angrily he shoved his chair back. He went over to his rifle on the wall and stood there, playing his fingers along the barrel.
When at last he could speak, his voice came deadly slow. “As a boy, my hero was a hard-ridin’ cowboy name of Charles Russell, and he used to say: ‘The tops of the mountains belong to God and He don’t want his wild things disturbed.’ That’s my creed too.”
“Oh, Charley!” I gulped in relief. “I knew you’d help.”
“Count on it!” he said, his hands clenched into fists. “We’ve been so blinded by happiness we let these roundups go on right under our noses. Now, Annie, we got a mighty rough road ahead of us.”
“I know. But if we don’t do something soon, there won’t be any mustangs left.”
1 “The Prayer of the Old Horse,” from Prayers from the Ark, by Carmen Bernos de Gasztold.
10. Mice and Mustangs
PA FOUND out from Charley that I was in dead earnest about saving the mustangs. He stopped at the office one noon, with a look of pride on his face. “Let’s tie on the feed bag, Annie,” he said. “Your Pa’s got things deep in his mind.”
Pa’s idea of the feed bag was a brown paper sack filled with cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers and fig newtons from the corner drug store. Today he splurged with brimming cartons of malted milk.
As we ate, we stood in the bright sunshine on the bridge just outside the office. Munching away, we looked down at the Truckee River bubbling under the bridge and between the tall buildings. Pa’s eyes were fixed on a big-chested duck riding the waves like an ocean-going liner. When the duck flew away in answer to a honk in the sky he turned to me. “Annie,” he said, “bein’ as you’re a girl, you got to be extry careful.”
I squirmed, thinking he was going to lecture me about my being too skinny and puny to put up a fight. “Careful of what?” I burst out. “Of what?”
“Of bein’ girrrlish.” And he rolled the rr’s in disdain. “You can’t just rage and gnash your teeth and cry about wild mustangs kicking up dust in the moonlight. That’s ‘zackly what the flyin’ mustangers and the cowmen and sheepmen and all the legal folk are goin’ to expect from a girrrl. What I mean is, you got to shock ’em with facts hard as bullets. Annie,” he shook his head, “you got a terrible rough road to travel.”
I grinned. “You’ve been talking to a certain Charley Johnston.”
“That I have. And I don’t aim to interfere with the way you two go about this,” he said, waving his fig newton. “That is, after today. Today all I got to say is: Look like a girl. Be a girl. But think reasonable like your Pa.” And the smile in his eyes spread across his face until it showed the dark hole where two back teeth were missing. Suddenly he turned off the smile the way you’d switch off a lamp. “Remember, Pardner,” he said with gruff tenderness, “don’t fire your gun unless its loaded.”
Right there, with the noon office people and shoppers passing by, I threw my arms around Pa. “Don’t you worry,” I cried eagerly, “if facts are what they want, I’ll furnish ’em.”
With Pa’s words ringing in my ears, I set out at once to plan my campaign. To begin with, I went to the local newspapers, urging them to report the cruelties of the plane and truck roundups. The first skirmish came almost bef
ore I was ready. It began with a whispered telephone conversation at midnight.
A woman’s hushed voice said, “This is Lura Tularski.”
I recognized the name at once. I read her “Saddle Chatter” column in the Journal the way Mom reads her Bible. Lura discussed the horse world—important things, like the difference between a Thoroughbred and a purebred; and that Arabians have one less vertebra than other horses, which accounts for their short backs; and the special jargon of horse markings, such as stars and stripes, and stockings and socks.
Now in a cloak-and-dagger voice she spoke rapidly. “Listen sharp, Annie. Word has leaked out that the local land management office has given permission to a couple of cowboy pilots from Idaho to round up mustangs in the foothills near your ranch. Maybe you can stop them—if you act quickly.”
“Yes, yes!” I whispered in mounting excitement. “But how?”
“Why, just block their permit when they apply to the County Board.”
“Wh—when is that?”
“Tomorrow night at eight. They’re trying to keep the meeting secret so there’ll be no one on hand to oppose the permit.”
“Where’s the meeting?”
“In the courthouse at Virginia City. You and Charley have a lot of friends in Storey County, Annie. Round them all up and crash the meeting.”
I thanked her and hung up. Aha! I thought. So that’s how it’s done! Quickly I made my list of names.
At the office next morning I worked fiercely, doing a day’s work in four hours. “Mr. Harris,” I said at noon, “may I leave now? I’ve got to help stop a wild horse roundup.” Already a plan was forming in my mind.
“How can I say no,” Mr. Harris answered, “when your work is already done? But I wish you’d leave mustang business to Charley and the other men.”
“Oh, I will,” I said honestly enough. “I’ll just work in the background. Charley is already calling up everyone he knows will be against it—Tex Gladding, the postmaster at Virginia City; Jack Murry, the guard at the state prison; Attorney Richards and Mr. Flick and all the ranchers in the Truckee meadows.”
Mustang: Wild Spirit of the West Page 5